It was now just after midday, perhaps the seventh hour of morning at the latest. Iruhotep was taken aback for a moment by the sudden change in volume in the hall. Colleagues greeted one another just like in the garden, the confined space allowed sound to reverberate within the building. The higher level of background noise made it difficult to be heard using a normal speaking voice. The obvious solution was to simply speak louder, which created more noise that one needed to talk over, and on it went like a serpent eating its own tail. It would, of course, have been easier to talk outside, but that was hardly the point. Conversations inside of the Per Ib, especially the ones held close to the entrance, served the same purpose as the courtyards of the noble estates: they existed to be seen. Greetings here were entirely political. So were the conversations. Everything was spoken loudly enough for people to overhear, especially precursors to disciplinary action.

"We seem to be going through brushes much quicker, Senka," a scribe about Iruhotep's age said to a much younger boy. "How many do you think are broken by your cropmates on a regular basis?"

Local conversations gradually became quieter to better hear the unfolding drama.

"I do not know for certain, Sedjemef, sir," The boy, Senka, replied sheepishly.

"Hmm, I believe I have the exact figures in my office. Follow me, we can review them together and identify the issue."

Sedjemef turned on his heel and began walking deeper into the Per Ib, where the conference rooms and administrative offices were. Senka let out a small yelp and followed after, head held low. Everyone who had just observed the interaction began to whisper, then speak quietly, then talk normally, then softly yell, raising their voices as the teacher and student got further away.

"What do you think that Senka boy is doing with brushes?"

"You don't think he's stealing them, do you?"

"I heard he's been eating them. Can you imagine?"

Rumors began to spread as to what, exactly, Senka had done, ranging from the mundane to the fantastical to the completely nonsensical.

"I know a barber who once spoke with a butcher, who shares the name of a music tutor of Senka's neighbor. The barber said that there is a lost lineage of kings. Perhaps the brushes are important to restore Senka's status."

The rumors were intended and encouraged. Of course, Sedjemef already knew where the brushes were. He already had the report of brush production and knew exactly how many were lost on a regular basis. But shame was an important aspect of any punishment.

"True lessons everywhere," Iruhotep thought to himself as he walked in the same direction as Senka and Sedjemef.

Past the classrooms were a series of large storage chambers that contained most of the raw and prepared materials necessary for lessons. Two workshops, one dedicated to the creation of dry and other of wet materials, were closeby. Charcoal needed to be ground into a powder and pressed into cakes for ink. Reeds needed to be flattened and pressed to make paper. Soft, colorful stones needed to be broken down to dust on palettes to make colored pigments. Of course, it was the culled who carried out these tasks. Dirty work, especially anything that might stain the skin, was always consigned to the culled. Their work was, of course, integral to the entire operation of the Per Ib. Regardless of how useful their labor may be, the very existence of the culled was used as a stick in the same manner of Senka's very public reprimand. Any student moving between the classrooms and faculty offices had to pass the workshops on their way, allowing them to see exactly what fate may await if their failings are not rectified.

Iruhotep glanced inside a workshop as he passed. One of the culled, a young man of perhaps 16 years, was straining to lift a heavy stone into the hopper of a loaded reed press. The device allowed for the quick production of paper, but still required copious physical effort. Several sheets of wet paper, separated by canvas, were loaded between two large flagstone plates known as "mes-mi-khenra," or more often just "mikhen." The mikhen were separated by eight wooden rods that fitted perfectly through eight drilled holes in the plates themselves. Because the alignment of the plates directly affected the efficacy of the device, mikhen were created in pairs, their holes drilled at the same time, hence their name, "born in the manner of khenra."

Above the mikhen was a wicker basket large enough for a man to bathe in were it watertight. With some effort, the culled in the workshop was able to lift the rock over the rim, allowing it to tumble into the hopper. The whole apparatus bounced slightly when the stone hit bottom, the extra weight causing some water to be expelled from the nascent sheets of paper. The culled took a couple of deep breaths, wiped some sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand, and bent over to pick up another stone from a nearby pile.

Beyond the workshops were a series of smaller classrooms where more advanced training took place. Then more storage, this time for niche items. Then offices for administrators like Uwerrekh as well as more general purpose rooms not assigned to a single individual. Iruhotep could see a terrified Senka, tightly clutching knees, sitting across from Sedjemef. They had just sat down, so the actual punishment hadn't yet started, but the scribe already had a sheet of paper in front of him to record the student's failings.

Iruhotep continued onward to the terminus of the long hall. Here, was the first set of doors he had encountered since he had entered the Per Ib. This was the Sanctum, the most sacred area of the building. Iruhotep took a deep breath, pushed open the huge wooden doors, and stepped beyond the threshold. The doors closed behind him of their own accord, sealing him inside.

He stood for a few moments, acclimating to his new surroundings. The noise from the hall was completely cut off by the doors, leaving him in near complete silence. At first, everything was black, but this was not the truth of things. No matter how dark things seemed, there was always a light if one knew where to look. Iruhotep closed his eyes. His mind sought out the reality around him. There were braziers full of half-burned timber, eager to once again host a flame. So desperate was their need to fulfill a purpose, one only needed to invite the idea of fire, and the fixtures would do the rest.

"Iren heru," Iruhotep said to the void around him. He opened his eyes to see a dozen braziers burning with ghostly blue flames, illuminating the space.

The Sanctum was a large circular chamber, sixty strides from one end to the other. Twelve doors, were spaced equally around the edge of the room. Eleven led to troves of ancient documents sorted into broad categories like "Genealogies," or "Taxation." The twelfth door, behind Iruhotep, led back to the public section of the Per Ib. Twelve braziers in line with the doors formed a ring halfway between the edge and center of the chamber. Between the lights rose twelve fluted pillars, supporting a ceiling somewhere beyond the reach of the flickering firelight. At the center of the Sanctum, indeed at the center of all things, Iruhotep reminded himself, was Noth, god of knowledge and learning.

A diorite statue of the Lord of Knowing stood 3 khet high, the dark stone barely illuminated in some places by the braziers. Almost all humanoid monuments adopted a standard, mathematically-perfect template. Every measurement was a simple proportion of some other part of the statue. The torso, for example, measured exactly 3/5ths the length of the leg from the waist to the top of the shoulder. The pose too was standard across almost all humanoid statues: standing, right leg rigid, left leg stepping forward (which formed a perfect 30-60-90 triangle between the base, left calf, and right shin), arms straight down from the shoulder and often clutching some fetish important to the represented figure. In the case of Noth, his right arm continued straight down, terminating in a fist holding a scroll. The left arm matched its twin at the shoulder, but bent at the elbow, creating its own, identical triangle. The left fist grasped a Wa-es staff, a cane with a curved rail at the top and a bicufacted base. The staff and the scroll together denoted the principle domains of Noth, namely information and magical power.

The final identifying feature for a representation of Noth, was an unfinished face. It had the rough shape of what one would expect of a humanoid, but no details. The eyes, nose, mouth, ears, hair, and anything else one would expect to find on a face were conspicuously absent. There were some who suggested this was to make certain that the god was not associated with any one specific race; knowledge, after all, belonged to all who seek it. Iruhotep believed the missing face represented something very different though. Noth's face was unknowable because there is no real end to learning. The face remained blank as a reminder that nobody will ever know everything and should never stop moving forward intellectually.

Iruhotep bowed slightly before the Great God before turning right and walking to the 90 degree point of the circular sanctum. He entered the room, past a miniature version of the main sanctum doors, and was again greeted with darkness when he was sealed within the smaller room. He focused his mind and spoke fire into existence just as he had before.

“Iren heru.” More pale blue flames sprouted into being, this time housed in dozens of lamps lining the small chamber. The lights brought into view a long central table and walls lined with  shelves. Criss-crossing wooden rods created dozens of diamond-shaped cubbies, each holding dozens of ancient scrolls. Iruhotep got to work finding the right one.

There was no real organization to the collection beyond the broad category “wisdom literature.” So, Iruhotep had literally hundreds of scrolls to retrieve, open, skim for keywords, close, and return before he could hope to find his target. This was one of the reasons Uwerrekh was hestitant to allow source material to be examined; yes, tradition was part of it, but these practices only became tradition because of their efficacy. It took two hours of diligently checking and returning scrolls to find the one Uwerrekh had given permission to seek: an older copy of The Wisdom of Mesenmutef. This specimen was written about 150 years ago. Iruhotep released the seal and began to read.

Beginning of written teachings of the Grand Vizier, Overseer of the Treasury, Keeper of the Seal, Mesenmutef for his son known as Maerma’at.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be humble. When in a position of authority, always listen to your charges. Do not interrupt until their hearts have become unburdened. It is the duty of authority to provide for their subordinates as a father does his children.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be productive. Endeavor to complete any task undertaken. As a man may only transport so much grain at a time, he should not accept so many future burdens as to become encumbered. To fail or otherwise not complete a promised labor is dishonest, and the dishonest are unloved by Quasir.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be generous. It is good to be giving. As the gods have blessed you, you should also bless those who live under your cultivation. However, one must also be parsimonious with his favor, for gifting too often will make the receiver complacent. This is of no benefit to the world.

On and on the manuscript continued, listing virtues and justifying their importance. Honestly, courage, deference, and many others each had their own passage meant to instill proper values in the reader. Iruhotep had copied these words dozens of times himself, enough that he could recite most verses from memory. All of it was exactly as he recalled; every single character in every single line was in exactly the same place as modern reproductions. The Per Ib was nothing if not consistent, right down to the final passage:

So ends the written teachings of the Grand Vizier of Uersekhem, Overseer of the Treasury, Keeper of the seal, Mesenmutef for his son, known as Maermaat. It is done, from its beginnings to its end. Go with prosperity, health, and strength.

Iruhotep sighed. He didn’t exactly know what he was looking for, but there wasn't anything here that wasn't available in a more recent reproduction. He began to run a finger between his eyes and up towards his scalp as a therapeutic measure to ease his disappointment. With no clear mistakes in the older document, he couldn’t plausibly petition Uwerrekh to audit other documents, especially given how long it had taken for a single manuscript; it had taken at least two hours to find what he wanted. Under normal circumstances, Iruhotep would be penalized in some way for the impropriety of challenging authority with nothing to show. Knowing Uwerrekh though, Iruhotep need only apologize in a suitably public setting. The older man would undoubtedly accept humbling his smug student in front of a crowd as suitable redress. It was time to return to regular work.

Or was it?

While he had finished the work he had explicit permission for, perhaps he could still look at different scrolls for clues. Maybe something else written by Mesenmutef? That was still at least related to the task Uwerrekh approved. Iruhotep tapped the scroll in front of him with a single finger as he weighed his options. He rolled it up, reactivated the seal, but did not return it just yet. Perhaps there was an older copy he can compare it to. It was important to complete the audit as thoroughly as possible after all. Of course he might have to examine some fascinating and altogether unrelated scrolls over the course of his search, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

Again, Iruhotep began to sort through ancient manuscripts. Mesenmutef was the grand vizier of Uersekhem. Uersekhem was Nebperet some 650 years ago. The reproduction Iruhotep had found was a scant 150 years old. If he could find a document created closer to the life of the author, perhaps there would be something he could present to Uwerrekh. Some justification for spending time away from more "worthwhile" tasks. A lost passage would be marvelous, but even a substituted word could, with enough debate, partially assuage Uwerrekh.

So Iruhotep sought out documents at least 500 years old, significantly closer to the life of Mesenmutef, and therefore more likely to contain sections that scribes copied somewhat incorrectly in recent iterations. Rough dating could be done fairly easily by checking the seal on each scroll. 

He picked one at random from a cubby. The magical shield around the manuscript prevented his skin from making direct contact with the paper and provided additional rigidity. The result was a delicate, rolled, sheet of paper that was as unyielding as a metal bar. A skilled scribe could instantly assess the age of any work simply by squeezing, tapping, and caressing a scroll as if it were a melon at market. While Iruhotep could not discern a 50 year old seal from a 53 year old seal, he was accurate to within a century.

The scroll in his hand was fresh. No obvious degradation of the protective magic. He ran his fingers down the axis of the document. It felt like a pipe. The seal must have been applied no more than two generations ago, but there was more to check.

Iruhotep turned around, bringing the scroll closer to the light to examine the little bit of red mud that maintained the spell of preservation. The mud remained wet and pliable as long as it still held power, but would slowly dry and crack as it aged, weakening the magic. A seal could last as long as 500 years, but should be replaced after 400. The clay on older documents could be reapplied a dozen times over, but each left some residual dried clay. so scrolls could still be roughly dated if one knew what to look for. This scroll had no marks of reapplication, making this the first seal. The clay still had some sheen and no cracks, confirming his estimated 40 year creation. Not even close to the 500 year mark he was seeking.

Iruhotep placed the scroll back into its cubby and checked another. It was firm but yielded ever so slightly, more akin to a wooden plank than a metal rod. The clay itself was matte, as if it had dried overnight, but there were no signs of reapplication. It was written about 100 years ago. Older, but still younger than even the copy he found earlier.

Return the scroll returned. Grab another. Firmness of folded linen. Some surface clay was beginning to flake and chip like a well-used pot. Remnants of an older seal were just slightly offset from the current one. This scroll was 700-900 years old. Slightly older than what he was looking for, but it wouldn't hurt to examine it nonetheless. For conservation reasons, of course.

Iruhotep returned to his seat with his prize and focused his attention on the seal. The clay worked by effectively removing the object from contact with the river of time. It was a message in an invisible bottle floating in an invisible stream. Iruhotep visualized himself upon the shore, reaching out to snatch the bottle as it floated by to release it from stasis. He spoke the proper words to manifest his Wa's. 

“Inn Djet.”

The sealing clay became hard, as if fired, and released its hold on the seam while staying affixed to one edge. The scroll unrolled itself slightly, seemingly glad to again be read. Unfurling it further, Iruhotep began reading the introduction to the text, written in red.

Beginning of the written teachings of the Priest of Susmet, Physician of the Ear, Physician of the Eye, Practitioner of Health, Ittinedjem for his son known as Ittinedjem Sherri.

An interesting treatise regarding inflammatory infections, but decidedly not what he was looking for at the moment. Iruhotep rolled up the scroll, and focused his Wa's again on the seal. Now he saw himself on the shore, placing the scroll back into its container. As he visualized placing the cork back onto the top, he spoke the words to manifest his intent.

“Djer Djet.”

The clay softened and affixed itself to the paper. The shield left a slight tingling sensation on the inside of Iruhotep’s palm as it extended from the scroll’s center. He returned it and grabbed another.

This one was 200 years old. He returned it and grabbed another. 100 years old. He grabbed another, and another, and another, only opening those appropriately ancient. On and on he continued, being reminded to eat regularly, wash his feet, put his trousers on left leg first, and so on. 

How long had he been here? There was no natural light in the sanctum. All the candles were magical and eternal, so he couldn’t even judge based on spent fuel. His stomach growled. That was some data. He must have missed his midday meal (against the sage advice of Dinmen), so it was likely sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. Iruhotep grimaced. Uwerrekh would not be pleased at how much time had been taken here, away from more important duties. The man was sure to be very vocal regarding his displeasure. It was time to leave here.

Or was it?

Iruhotep looked around the chamber. The walls were lined with cubbies, full of scrolls. As he had returned each one, Iruhotep had inadvertently arranged them by author. His time here, therefore, had not been completely wasted and would likely aid some future scholar. He could afford to look at maybe one more scroll.

As luck would have it, there was a single scroll left in the case he was drawing from that he had not checked yet. Sorting this last one would be the logical conclusion if in fact arranging the scrolls had been an objective from the start. Iruhotep removed the manuscript to inspect. There were individual areas of stiffness, yes, but they manifested like lilies in a pond. The current seal was well past its expiration. The document was at least 550 years old, but likely closer to 600 or more.

Iruhotep turned it over in his hand. The parchment itself was stiff and delicate, typical of unprotected scrolls left exposed for decades, pushing its likely age to 650 or more years. Despite the regret of seeing knowledge being slowly lost to the procession of time, Iruhotep couldn’t help but feel excited. This was precisely the age he was seeking. All he needed to do was remove the seal, carefully unfurl it, and place a fresh seal back on when he was done. 

Iruhotep began to speak the words of release with a slight smile on his face. 

“Inn Dj-” but stopped.

This was not the first seal applied to the scroll. This was not the second. Nor the third, nor the fourth. No, the failing seal on the scroll was the sixth to have protected this document. At the very least, this delicate scroll was 3,000 years old. Immediately, Iruhotep straightened his posture. He adjusted his hold so that his fingers only made contact with the fractured shield rather than paper. Gingerly, he placed it onto the table in front of him and wiped his hands onto his robes. Handling the scroll with only the tips of his fingers, he deactivated the seal. 

Hardly daring to breathe near the ancient document, he whispered, “Inn Djet.” The seal crumbled away entirely, its magic completely spent. What knowledge could be held within? Gingerly, he unrolled the scroll and began to read.

Beginning of written teachings of the Grand Vizier, Overseer of the Treasury, Keeper of the Seal, Mesenmutef for his son known as Maermaat.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be humble. When in a position of authority, always listen to your charges. Do not interrupt until their hearts have become unburdened. It is the duty of authority to provide for their subordinates as a father does his children.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be productive. Endeavor to complete any task undertaken. As a man may only transport so much grain at a time, he should not accept so many future burdens as to become encumbered. To fail or otherwise not complete a promised labor is dishonest and the dishonest are unloved by Quasir.

Hear me Young one, for I know what it means to be generous. It is good to be giving. As the gods have blessed you, you should also bless those who live under your cultivation. However, one must also be parsimonious with his favor, for gifting too often will make the receiver complacent. This is of no benefit to the world.

This was… The Wisdom of Mesnmutef. This was verbatim, the Wisdom of Mesenmutef. This was written for the same son by the same vizier of the same Nebperet. Carefully, Iruhotep moved the scroll to one side before retrieving the first, younger copy he had found earlier. He released the seal and compared the two side-by-side. There was a single difference in syntax in the 5th passage and two more in the 9th. Penmanship was of course different, resulting in minor changes to blocking and formatting. Outside of expected alterations dependent on the scribe's handwriting though, the two documents were identical despite the age difference. One was 150 years old. One was 20 times that. The original manuscript should have been written during the reign of a Nebperet who lived 650 years ago. A younger copy is normal. A slightly older origin, perhaps up to a decade, could be possible, but would be very unexpected; it would force a change in official chronology at least back to the time of the specific king. But this was a discrepancy of almost 2,500 years!

Iruhotep checked one document, then the other. Then the first again. Then the second. Back and forth, straining his eyes until his head hurt. Was he wrong about when Mesenmutef lived? He began reciting backwards the reign of every Nebperet into antiquity. No, he clearly recalled the royal succession properly. There was no way he could be mistaken, especially by such a large margin. Was he wrong about the seal? Carefully, he turned over the ancient manuscript to inspect the clay residue. There were, very clearly, 5 other residual circles of applied sealing clay. Bringing his head as close as he dared, he found a further 2 partially buried under new applications. This only pushed the date even further back.

Iruhotep sat back in his chair, rubbing two fingers on his temple. A mistake must have been made somewhere. He must have made a mistake somewhere. But he could not figure out where. He needed to speak with Uwerrekh. The old scribe would surely know where Iruhotep’s thoughts had gone awry. It must be something simple. Something obvious. Something that would make the old man laugh and give him a smug sense of superiority for a while. What else could be the alternative?

Iruhotep sighed in frustration before getting up and retrieving the tools to fashion a new seal. Sealing clay was not difficult to find anywhere in the Per Ib. He found a sagging ball of the viscous red material on a smaller corner table. On the table were also the tackle needed to precisely measure and cut what he needed from the large mass. Iruhotep took an exactly proportioned dab of clay and began to work it between his fingers and palm, all-the-while instilling it with his Wa's. When it was appropriately pliable, he very, very carefully rolled up the scroll once more and placed the clay at the seam. Finally, he retrieved his signet ring from within his robes and pressed it onto the seal, leaving an impression and marking him as the last one to work with the document.

"Djer Djet," Iruhotep whispered, expending his Wa's and completing the spell. He relaxed immensely after feeling the restored shield extending from the seal, tingling slightly beneath his fingertips. Once again safe within an invisible, rigid envelope, Iruhotep returned it to the shelf, in the same cubby as the more recent copy.

Iruhotep pushed in his chair, snuffed out the magical lights with his Wa's and exited the room. He walked slowly past the statue of Noth at the center of the inner sanctum, hand on his chin, contemplating exactly how to explain the current predicament to Uwerrekh. If nothing else, it would feel good to be back in natural light after spending so much time reading in the din. Upon reaching the sanctum door, Iruhotep dismissed the magical lights illuminating the chamber, opened the door, and found himself in complete blackness.

Once again he was confronted with the question: How long had he been working? He conjured his own magical light and began walking down the main corridor of the Perankh. Surely, somebody was still around: a student, a teacher, anybody. But all was quiet. All was deserted. No instructors in their offices. No students in classrooms. No Uwerrekh. Iruhotep passed by the classroom where had instructed pupils earlier in the day. Everything was clean and ready for the next morning. He continued to the entrance and walked out the front door, closing it behind him.